Psyche
by Goggles and Chocolate
Summary: I saw the inner him, the psyche with horns and a spiky tail, the soul that would scare Kira himself. I saw Lawliet. And I loved him more. And he loved me back. To death, as he says. How true will that be? COAUTHORING DLVVANZOR AND XXBEYONDXBIRTHDAYXX.
1. Chapter 1

**Beyond Birthday**  
I love to watch him sleep. There, perched on a chair like a crouching crow, I watch. Close enough to the bed to hear even the faintest breathing, because he's so quiet when he's in Morpheus' embrace. No nightmares, no tossing and turning. He's peaceful.  
He could almost look like an innocent child, with his frail frame, his dishevelled hair and the way he seems to be sucking on his thumb with this habit of his to bring this finger to his lips, even in his sleep.

But I know better...  
I know the soul behind the pupils, the man with the child in his eyes is nothing more than a peaceful sailor on seas of blood...

He sometimes smiles in his sleep, and it begins.  
I feel it rise in me, softly bubbling at first, in my gut, then boiling, erupting like lava in my veins, burning my brain cells to crisps, blackening my sight for an instant, before I...

So similar in appearance, I'd love the disgust in people's eyes if they saw us together. More than the fact we're both men, I'd treasure the little light of horror in the spectator's irises when they'd imagine incestuous acts in the display of our love.  
Such a pity that I can't get this little treat... because everything that happens between Lawliet and me stays between those walls. Our house. Our home. The theater of something that would put Greek tragedies to shame.

He's all mine to take, when he passes the doorstep of this place and I close the nine locks securely behind us. Only him and us, the multiple me. The lover, the jailer, the torturer, the mother.  
He comes on his free will, and I know he'll always come back to me, but another me feels like taking precautions. The nine locks are not an overreaction of some kind of paranoia, no...  
Everything I do is calculated, evaluated, and tested.  
Nine locks, all of which he knows how to open, he's L to the world, after all. Nine, because it's the amount of time taken to open unto the ninth one that I take to hear the click of the first one, cross the whole mansion, and reach the front door before the click of the ninth one resounds. He tested with me.

He's that way, completely true with me, never tricking, never teasing, never lying. He never allows himself a backdoor in our love, no matter how much I, myself, or any other me, lies, betrays and plays with him.  
I guess he's aware that there's a price to pay for being his true self with me. I accept the flaws, the horrible truth about L, and he gives me Lawliet. Not that I don't make him pay for what he really is, though...  
But he loves it, and comes back for more.

I once thought he still had some guilt potential in him, and that he was coming to the abusive me for some relief to his faults, like you confess and says many prayers when you've done bad things and you're a believer.  
But he only believes in self satisfaction, and sugar. Both being close in the process, though.  
But I saw the inner him, the psyche with the horns and the spiky tail, the soul that would scare Kira himself. I saw Lawliet. And I loved him more. And he loved me back. To death, as he says. How true will that be? Or better, when...?  
He never knows, with me...

And so he smiles in his sleep. And I know.  
I know the sweet dreams never altered by the horrible case he's on at the moment, because he doesn't care for details and people, he never feels empathy, he just lives on the trivia that leads to solving it.  
I know the relief he feels, because he's allowed to sleep._ I_ allow him to sleep. There's so much I have to do to keep him in shape, and I sigh at the thought I will have to wait a bit before he can take it all again.  
He's becoming more resistant with time though, for my great pleasure. The last two days were quite... intense. Even I managed to come, which is saying something. He's becoming good, but still not enough, but one day...  
Now?  
Shall I?...

Sleep deprived. Most think it's because he works so hard... if they ever knew... he doesn't need that much time to solve a case, but he makes believe. And while he's supposedly working, locked here in what people think as a retreat to think better, I'm loving him.  
With every fibre of my being, every cell of my brain, every inch of my skin, every bruise, every torment, every humiliation.

Because he's only that good, only arousing, only bringing me to the edge when he's at breaking point. You can never imagine the look in his eyes when he fights sleep away, when he tries to breathe away the pain and I'm suffocating him, when he begs me to stop with a slow blink and flashes his eyes back open to ask for more the second after, and I give him more, so much more...

The smile lingers at the corner of his mouth.  
I feel tears form in my eyes. Because he's beautiful. Because it's all up to me to ravage that pretty boy, to wound him to the point Quilsh himself wouldn't recognize him, and the knowledge of cupping his whole person in the palm of my hand and being able to crush it in one pressure of my fingers is so... horrible. In a good way, that is.  
And so I...

**L**

Every night I come back to him, and every time, as I wait for him to open the nine locks and allow me to see him again, my heart twisting and tearing with conflicting emotions of terror and hope and obsession and worship and dread, I hope that I'll change my mind and leave. And I never, never do.

I'll always come back. No matter what he says, no matter what he does, no matter who else he fucks (A, Linda, K...) for no reason other than to say that he betrayed me, I will always go back to him.

And as I crouch in my usual seated position on a chair pulled close to the bed where he reclined, naked, I pretend to be asleep for no reason other than because he likes to watch me sleep. He doesn't know it, but he's only seen me sleep twice in our entire lives. He thinks that I have sweet dreams, that I am silent when I sleep, when really, I scream, I cry, I thrash and twist up the sheets, always, always dreaming of him. When I'm around him, though, I pretend.

I'm always pretending, everywhere I go, and it's always for B. I pretend so much that I'm not sure it can even really be considered pretending, anymore. I pretend that a case will take me a week when it will take me an hour, _maybe_ two hours, just so that I can have more free time to spend with _him_. I pretend to be asleep, because something about that turns him on when very few things can. I deprive myself of sleep and pretend it's insomnia, because he likes when I'm fighting to stay awake. Besides sugar, I eat only when I must eat to stay alive, because I know he likes the feeling of my frail body in his arms and the idea that he could shatter me because, after all, I would let him. I take a knife to my body and give myself scars in places only he will see to add to the ones he's given me, because he likes blood and he likes pain and he likes scars although he prefers open wounds. I pretend that I have never entertained the idea of getting away from him.

But again, in a strange way, it's only with him that I'm _not_ pretending. With him and no one else, I never pretend that I'm not pretending. And he knows. He knows me so well; that and other things that I've never told anyone. I didn't even have to actually _tell_ him.

He knows that I don't care for 'Justice' as some damn ideal. He's the only one who has ever been able to figure it out; that I don't take impossible cases because of some sense of nobility. I do it simply because I am bored, and because, when my mind is not occupied, it leads right back to _him_.

He controls me. My every thought and my every action. He allows me to come, or he prevents me. He allows me to breathe or he strangles me. He allows me to touch his body or smacks me away, twisting my arms down to pin them by my side. To kiss him, or he bites my lips so hard that they bleed. He allows me to eat when we are together- the only time I eat anything but sugar- or he starves me. He allows me to bandage myself, or he lets me bleed. He allows me to let him lead me to the bathroom, or he lets me hold it until I can't anymore and piss all over myself. He allows me to bathe, or he lets me go so long that I get a rash. And when he is done with me, he allows me to leave the next day.

Because, in the end, he is my god.

He is insane. He is violent and cruel. He is brilliant. He is manic depressive and impossible to predict. He never tires and he never sleeps. He is barely human.

But he needs me.

He'll kill me one day, probably. Until then, he needs what only I am willing to give him: someone who will always come back, who will always want him, who will always make himself believe his every little lie. Who will let himself be manipulated, beaten, tied up, torn apart, strangled, starved, degraded, humiliated, bound, whipped, slapped, cut, bruised, fucked.

More than that, though, I just love him.

I'm not even a masochist. I don't like the pain just for the sake of pain. I also don't do it to punish myself for some imagined guilt- I care nothing for Justice and Good or Evil. I wasn't abused as a child, making me seek out the same kind of sexual relationship in the future.

I am just obsessed with every inch of him, every facet of his insane, twisted existence.

And so, as usual, I pretend to be asleep, pretend to be completely oblivious as he...


	2. Chapter 2

_**Note:** Dlvvanzor is still L and xxbeyondxbirthdayxx is still BB, and this one is M to the fullest, you're warned._

* * *

**Beyond Birthday**  
And so I jump from the bed, my leg sweeping the chair, making him lose balance and land his back on the floor. The move is so violent that I hear a crack, and bend over him, checking the damage as he watches me with wide eyes, mouth slightly open. His breathing is laboured. He's scared.

But he's not hurt.

I bend a little more and grab his middle, putting him back on his feet. Softly. I hold him, rubbing his back, and I nuzzle his neck, feeling his soft black hair smelling like shampoo. There. Everything's ok sweetheart. No hurt.

Not yet...

He gives in, I know he likes the contact, the cuddling. But people always get tired of things if they get too much, too often, don't they? He nests in the crook of my neck, sighing almost inaudibly, and his breath tickles my ear. He hugs me back and I stroke his beautiful hair. Before long, they'll be sticky with blood, sweat, tangled and greasy, though.

I deposit kisses on the places I can reach, he smells of clove and jasmine. He knows I love these scents. He does so much to please me, so much... Such a shame I'm never satisfied.

I tell him he's beautiful, as I withdraw a bit, and he believes the lie. I see it in his eyes, they shine. With fear, because he knows that I...

But they also shine with love and abandon. It's not a big lie, though. He's beautiful, now, that's true, but to me, he's only beautiful when he's ugly. Hair dishevelled, stuck with sweat in his face, blood smearing from fresh wounds, blue love proves on his pale skin, naked, rolling in dirt and covered with my cum. Then, he is a marvel. My eighth wonder.

He sees my eyes trail to something, and I feel the hug becoming weak. Because he knows that I will...  
He tries to get prepared, although he knows by now that it's useless. You can't expect the unpredictable.

And so I push him on the floor, hard. He falls and doesn't even try to slow the landing. Why try not to get hurt? It still feels good compared to what's next, what's forming in my mind...

He suddenly spots a line of blood running on my leg. A cut from when I swept the chair.  
His look goes from my shinbone to my face, and I nod. He approaches his lips from my leg, and licks the blood until the wound is clean, and kisses it. I didn't allow that.  
My foot harshly kick his chest, sending him back in his previous position, back on the floor.

I crouch, then crawl above him, grabbing the foot of the chair that broke a little earlier. He follows my every move, and even if terror starts to creep in his irises, I feel him harden under me. I would almost call him a little slut, but even in the worst of the humiliations I take out on him, there is one thing I never, ever allow myself. Insults.

Insults are the weapon of the weak. There are so, so many other ways to humiliate him...  
And after all, insults only hurt when they are true. And what could I diss him about? Nothing would sound convincing.

The foot of the chair finds its place under his chin, and the pressure is light. My knees are on his sides, and he tries to rub himself against me. He's so hard, and he wants it. So impatient. Bad little boy... I suspect him to tease me to get punished, to push me faster to the next level, and I'm magnanimous, I oblige.  
He coughs a little as the pressure of the chair's foot increase, and I smile tenderly to him. He smiles back, although I apply more and more pressure.

My hand never leaving the piece of wood, never stopping the pressure, I move off him, only to give him more room to undress. And he does it without me asking, he knows I love him to submit to my silent orders, reflecting in my eyes. He is already bare chest, for me to always see the scars imprinted in him, particularly the one taking half of his abdomen.  
B.  
Deep, still bloody, once infected, letting guess the profound damage, close, so close to the organs. It even once had stiches. Handmade stitches.  
What's most delightful is that he did it himself. The wound _and_ the stitches. Before my eyes. Oh, the grimace of pain when my cum burnt the open flesh, as he was sewing the skin, as I watched every inch of the thread, every little hole the needle made. It was like many little thrusts, a sexual parade.  
And he cried that night. Not because of the wound, the pain, but because he had managed to get me off for the first time. And whoever's above knows how much he'd tried before.

He gets rid of his jeans, and he knows better than to wear boxers. His erection is now free, swaying from the movement of his legs kicking the pants off, leaking precum.  
But I won't touch. And he won't, either. He stills on the floor, waiting for what's next.

I press on his adam apple a little more, making it hard for him to swallow his saliva. He'd like to swallow it, I can see how he struggles doing so, anxiety gaining him as his breathing becomes laboured.  
My other hand hovers above his skin, from his torso to his abdomen, never touching, only whispering temptation of a contact I don't make, but I point a finger and finally give him something, as he slightly buckles up but thinks twice and lays back still, not trying to reach my hand anymore since I didn't allow him.  
And my index collects a bit of precum on the tip of his member, and descends along the shaft, leaving a glistening trail and his erection aching for more.  
He moans loudly, and he stops cold. Not allowed.  
I grab the base of his penis, along with his balls, and give a strong squeeze, keeping my grip in place. He clenches his teeth, it hurts. I increase the tightening of my hand, and tears form at the corner of his eyes. His breathing becomes regular, since he now tries to will the pain away, but I tug now. More pain.  
I feel myself go hard at the sight of his pleading eyes, and withdraw my hand from his balls.

I kneel, my body straight, and remove the foot of the chair from his throat. He gasps a large amount of air before exhaling, and position himself on all four. He knows what my own position means, and, posing dog-like, he faces my erected member. His lips part, ready to take me inside of his mouth, but as the tip of my dick passes his teeth, I push forward in a swift movement, grabbing the back of his head at the same time. He gags but I keep him in place, and it's almost impossible for him to catch his breath through his fits of coughs.  
I violently mouth-fuck him at first, but gets bored quickly, and push him away.

"Ready yourself." I order him. He nods, half in agreement, half in gratefulness. He knows I'm being magnanimous tonight to allow him to prepare his ass for what's next.  
And I love watching him do so... if he does it the way I like it, that is.

He lies on his stomach, his ass turned to me, his thighs parted, and I see his right hand reach for his anus, covered with saliva, as he twists his body slightly to be able to look at my eyes for orders at the same time that he's fingering himself. He uses two at first, quickly scissoring them although it's painful, so I can see the grimace on his face for the self inflicted pain, just for me...  
He licks his fingers for more saliva, and continues the in and out movement, panting from his own ministrations. He adds a third finger, and soon I consider him ready and cover him, nesting between his legs. I deposit a soft kiss between his shoulderblades. I don't know why, I love this place of his skin, where the bones pop out slightly, with the groove in the middle, and the body heat and the _scent_.

I rub my erection against his ass, and he moves with me, trying to get me inside of him.  
And I penetrate him violently, and his eyes go wide as he turns his head to look at me.  
It's not my penis that he's feeling, but the foot of the chair, twice as huge as my cock (which is by no means small), and square shaped. I slide it in his tight hole as far as I can, and pull it almost out before slamming it again all the way in.

He's now crying out, because the pain is excruciating, and I don't stop. I feel my own precum at the tip of my erection, and rubs it around his anus while the wood fucks him hard. It makes it easier, slightly. Not enough, but I love to watch the piece of furniture thrust in him like this, entering so far that I wonder if I'm doing any damage to his entrails. Not that I worry.

I consciously avoid the right angle that would pleasure him. I want it to be _horrible_.  
I grab his hair, forcing him on all four again, and pulls the piece of wood out completely. I turn it in my hand and he watches me in horror. But he knows I'm going to do it.  
And I do it.  
The broken end of the chair's foot, in shards and irregular debris, doesn't ease itself inside of his anus like the other end did. He's now sobbing, and I smirk, delighted by the little whimpers he can't refrain, his hole being ripped in many little cuts as I force the wood in. When it's finally inside, I resume thrusting, blood quickly covering the piece of furniture. This time, I know the damage I'm doing to his entrails. But it's ok, he's going to be allowed to leave after that and will probably see a doctor.

And I laugh out loud at the thought of the explanations he's going to have to give to the doctor.

But I get bored once again, feeling my cock deflate. I'm not going to come anytime soon, it's just not enough...  
Too bad. I yank the chair's foot away, stand up and leave. He knows it's the signal for his departure.

**L  
**That particular escapade was difficult to explain to my doctor.

"I sat on a broken piece of wood," I informed him, limping into his office. He frowned, closing the door behind me.  
"Let me see."  
"I... am going to require your assistance in removing my pants, doctor."

To his credit, he didn't show any kind of reaction, simply putting on gloves (as was standard when making physical contact with a patient) and carefully, professionally taking off my jeans. He did not seem surprised that I had no underwear on, and I obeyed when he politely asked me to lie on my stomach on the examining table.

As he leaned over to examine my derrière, he suddenly froze. "Mr. Thomason, what _happened _to you?" he asked, amazement in his voice. He was used to strange injuries when it came to me (I had come to him to stitch many a B-shaped cut, like the ones on both my palms), and I suspected he thought I was a prostitute because of the focus on anus-related injuries. This probably _was_ one of the worst, however.  
"As I said," I replied, "I sat on a piece of broken wood."  
"Mr. Thomason, please tell me the truth. There is no way you sat on a piece of broken wood hard enough to do _this_ to yourself."  
"I did."  
"You would have had to fall directly on it from a few feet in the air, naked, and land right on your anus- and I haven't even examined you to see how deep or long the cuts are!- at least twice."  
"That's what happened, doctor."  
"_How_ could that possibly happen?"  
"It was a very strange series of unlikely events that you wouldn't believe even if I told you."  
He sighed. "Very well. Mr. Thomason, I have to examine your anus now. It will help you if you relax."  
A finger? I almost laughed. One single finger, and he was warning me to relax.  
He probed around in there for a while. His gentleness confused me, but I stayed still until he withdrew, his finger covered in blood.  
"You need to go to surgery immediately," he told me calmly. "Stay right there. Don't move."  
B wouldn't like that I'd had surgery, but it was necessary. I already felt faint with how much blood I was losing, and my intestines had probably been damaged. I had already solved my most recent case (I was once again pretending to need much more time than I actually needed), so no one would miss me at work for a few days.  
That didn't, of course, mean that I was going to stay.  
So when the surgery was over and I had woken up from anesthesia, I signed myself out against the doctor's strong recommendations, and went straight back to B. After all, it had been almost twenty-four hours and he would be expecting me, and I couldn't stay away.

Because I will always, always go back to my god.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Note: _**_You didn't expect all the ongoing stories to be updated, did you? XD  
And BAM! We do it! Still xxbeyondxbirthdayxx as BB and Dlvanzor as L, nothing changed :)_

* * *

**Beyond Birthday**  
I have to admit, although I did expect him back very quickly – he had a week off after all, and there was no way I'd allow him to spend it anywhere else than with me – a part of myself had hoped that he'd take some rest after what I had inflicted on him. I had gone as far as I had to give room for some disobedience.

So when I opened the nine locks, I was still oscillating between self satisfaction for being so magnetic that he was already back despite his injuries, and disappointment for the punishment scheme that I would not be able to put in action, since he hadn't kept me waiting.

He slid his frail body through the half opened door, his stance different. The pain.  
I gestured to the living room, and he preceded me. He knew better than to peep behind, as I walked a few feet away, following his pace. His steps were a trial at being self assured, but I could tell that he was probably inwardly screaming at every move. I did a pretty good job.

He stopped in the middle of the room and waited for me to come and face him, ready for orders like a wounded soldier back to the frontline.

I slowly took the last steps before stopping in front of him, and lifted his chin with my index. He was smiling.  
He was smiling that beautiful smile, that genuine smile that meant all at once that he had missed me, that he was glad to be back here, and that he loved me.  
I slapped him.  
"So, so, so disappointing..." I huffed, "Just when I thought that I could use my new ideas on you for taking too long to recover and keep me waiting, you're already home. Mmh... I guess either way you would have deserved some kind of punishment. What do you think, love?"

"I think what you think, I say what you want me to say, and do what you want me to do..." he whispered, looking at his feet.

I smirked. Good little boy, lesson's learnt perfectly, isn't it?

"Go." I said, coldly, and left the room.  
I didn't need to see his eyes, I already knew the expression in them. I, for the first time, had given him the worst punishment in our history. He had free time, and he'd spend it away from me.

He was of no use in his state, and I couldn't be bothered.

From the room I was in, I knew he hadn't move an inch. There was nothing like the usual sounds of departure.  
I waited in the silence, then rushed back to where he was still standing, but stopped cold as my eyes met his.  
The look was unusual.

He walked to me, his signature hunched stance slightly unbalanced by the physical pain, but his eyes told me that he didn't care for it. His mind was set on something else that I hadn't identified yet, but I knew that determination was a strength of his and would occult anything else.

Curious, I waited with a light smirk, planted in the middle of the room, until he reached me.

For the first time, I saw the man unfold and straighten, and if our physical resemblance made the scene look like I was looking into a mirror, my reflection quickly grabbed my face and kissed me.  
Lawliet rarely surprised me, not only because I was the kind to predict everything, but because I hated surprises. I only loved control.

I searched for any hesitation in the wet exchange, but there was none.  
All I could feel was that he had sensed my growing irritation, and was kissing me even harder. Whether it was to make up for it, or to take as much as he could before the blow, I didn't know, but it was interesting.  
So I let him go on.

The less I reacted, the more he did.  
Soon he was holding me like a lifeline, nuzzling my neck, kissing, pecking, pulling me as close to him as possible, suffocating me slightly.

So I...

**L**  
The most alarming thing was, he let me do it. Going to my room would have been wrong, insisting to stay in his proximity would have been wrong. There was no way I could do the right thing, so for the first time I decided to be surprising, decided to simply take what I wanted.

So I kissed him, hard but expressive, and drew him closer to my aching body. I wrapped my arms around him and pulled back to kiss along his cheekbone, down his jaw, to run my nose over his neck. I lavished the skin of his throat, unaffected by his lack of response. I was being interesting, and he liked interesting, and there would certainly be punishment but whatever it was— literally, anything it could possibly be— I could take it. And I would. Perhaps not with a smile but certainly with a screamed, just how he liked it.

He was limp in my arms, now, but I knew it wasn't from fuzzy feelings and definitely not from pleasure. I was pressed against him and would know if he had an erection. Instead, it was him shutting off, letting me do whatever I wanted, for now. Probably so that he could feel I had earned whatever punishment he'd planned for me if I had stayed away for a week. He'd been oh-so-disappointed before.

For the moment, though, he was my doll, and I carried my reflection to the sofa that had never once been used for anything sweet or soft or tender. Not until now. I pulled him gently down with me, manipulating his body so that he was curled up on my lap, and turned his face towards mine with my fingers. I kissed him slowly and deeply, the way I would kiss someone if I was in a normal relationship with a normal person, and he let me. I ran a loving finger over the side of his face, and he paused. I pulled back to look into his eyes.

I had never seen that expression there before. It wasn't love, but I didn't expect love. It was... willful submission... but there was danger underneath it. It told me he would go along with it for now, but there would be consequences.

Fine.

I kissed him again, and this time he participated, matching the loving style and softness and unhurriedness. There was no sincerity behind it and he wasn't hard. I didn't expect him to be, or really want him to be, or care either way. That was not what this was about— we weren't /making love/ or something. No. I was making him normal. For just one moment, I was making him and me and us together, normal. He was in love with destruction, and I would provide it.

I worshipped his lips until mine were going numb and his were red and swollen. Then I shifted him around in my arms until he was beneath me. Reverently, I began to remove each article of his clothing until he was only pale skin and dark hair. I stood briefly and stripped myself as well, and he stared at my body because it was a reflection of his, except for the scars we had given me over the years. I let him look until he had his fill, then came back to him (always) and lowered myself over him, pulling him close against me to mouth over his neck.

Although the press of our lower bodies worked for me, physically, it did nothing for him, as I had known it wouldn't. B didn't get off on anything that didn't involve blood. I kissed down his torso, brushing my lips over every inch of his skin, licking and kissing and occasionally leaving light love bites. I did the same to his legs, avoiding his genitals, lingering over his thighs and the backs of his knees.

I crawled back up his body, dropping the occasional kiss, to offer my fingers to his lips. He looked me dead in the eyes, warning me, but I didn't waver. He took my fingers in his mouth and wet them thoroughly. I smiled at him, kissed his lips, and then made my way back down.

We had never done it this way around for obvious reasons, but it wasn't rocket science and even if it had been I would have been able to understand it. I pressed the tip of a finger into him, slow and careful, glancing up at his face which was completely blank.

I took a solid half hour for the rest of it, going so slowly that there was no way he felt anything even resembling discomfort at any point in time. Only when I was completely certain (and when he looked bored out of his mind) did I slick up my erection and slide into him. It took almost no pressure, and he didn't make a sound. I spread out over him, took him in my arms, kissed him tenderly, held him close. Then I began to move. Because he was participating on principle, he held onto my back tightly but not painfully.

It was slow at first, as was proper but unheard of between us. He still wasn't hard. I sped up, nudging all the right places inside him, and aside from a reflexive twitch, I got nothing from him but a contrasting movement. I kept up the pace, long, deep thrusts, perfectly aimed despite my abused body. It felt amazing and was, frankly, entirely novel: I knew I wouldn't last like this. That was fine because I could tell he was bored again, gazing elsewhere as our bodies moved together, and it was all a farce anyway. So with a few final moves and a deep kiss to his lips, I buried myself in him and came, silent except for a sharp intake of breath.

I gazed down at him and he looked up at me and there was nothing but danger in his eyes.

Defiantly, I kissed him one last time. "I love you," I whispered against his lips.

"I love you too," he said in a low voice.

If I didn't know him I might not have known that in just a few moments I could very well be dead.


End file.
